


Breaking Point

by RiotFalling, WhiteIronWolf (adoctoraday)



Series: Bound To You [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, BDSM-verse, Bucky Barnes and his PTSD, Dom!Bucky Barnes, Human Disaster Tony Stark, M/M, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Soft Sad Boys, Sub!Tony Stark, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, bucky barnes need a hug, canon adjacent, general warning for Ty being a sleeze, literally everyone needs a hug, post-AoU, references to domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiotFalling/pseuds/RiotFalling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoctoraday/pseuds/WhiteIronWolf
Summary: Dom withdrawal is a real and serious thing, with dangerous and unpleasant side effects.Good thing that’s not what’s wrong with Tony.It's been a year, and Bucky thought he would feel a little better by now. But the anxiety and insomnia just keep getting worse, and he doesn't know how much longer he can deal with this level of PTSD.Except, that's not the problem.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Series: Bound To You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806055
Comments: 236
Kudos: 758





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Предел прочности](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494528) by [Sidemaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidemaze/pseuds/Sidemaze)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by RiotFalling
> 
> [You can find me @riotwritesthings on Tumblr!](https://riotwritesthings.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Join us in our tumblr group chat and get sneak peeks of new chapters, discuss meta and headcanons, and participate in easter egg hunts for spoilers!](https://www.tumblr.com/chat/0_JOa_w6Jki6xyaWadq4Ww/bound-to-you)

Tony has been tossing and turning in bed for... exactly three hours and fifty three minutes now.

 _Exactly_.

The headache he’s been growing all day has spread, too, it’s taken over his entire skull, pounding in time with his rapid pulse.

He needs to _sleep,_ it was already past midnight when he finally dragged himself out of the lab and now it’s some ungodly hour of the morning and Tony _hasn’t slept._

He can’t even remember the last time he got a proper night’s sleep; got more than a few hours here or there when his overworked body just can’t keep going. Or when he drinks himself to sleep.

All he knows is it’s been long enough that he’s not going to be able to play it off as normal work-related exhaustion much longer. Throwing himself into his work at SI definitely has its benefits; it’s a good distraction, and the company’s reputation is even managing to recover from the PR hit and general nightmare that was Sokovia. It’s _also_ a convenient excuse for why he’s been sleepless and scatterbrained, jumping restlessly from one thing to the next and unable to ever _settle._

Tony flops onto his stomach and buries his face under the pillow, tries to swallow down the pained whine rising in his throat. He counts out the seconds in a useless attempt to ignore the throbbing in his head, and another thirty seven minutes later he flails his way out of bed with a frustrated groan.

He has to pause for a minute as his head spins and threatens to split itself straight down the middle, then begins a slow shuffle to the kitchen.

FRIDAY slowly turns the lights to the dimmest possible setting, and Tony squints and hisses even if he does appreciate it. He doesn’t need to add a stubbed toe to his list of complaints today.

He chugs down an entire glass of water and pops a couple more painkillers even though he knows, he _knows_ it’s not going to help.

But if he acknowledges that dehydration and general stress _aren’t_ the cause of his headaches, that they have a very specific cause and it’s all tied up with the insomnia and the fact that he sometimes feels like he’s about to come out of his _skin,_ then he’ll have to acknowledge what the actual cause _is._ And that’s not something Tony is willing to do, because he can’t do a damn thing about it anyways.

Or, he _won’t_ do a damn thing about it. Whichever.

It’s _so_ tempting to just go back to his lab, let his mind bounce around the way it wants to. Maybe he’ll even accomplish something, because he's almost certainly not going to be sleeping. Instead, Tony forces himself to turn towards the bedroom. He has things he needs to do today, things that _don’t_ involve being a sleepless mess.

He has _multiple_ boring budget meetings that he’s pretty sure Pepper ‘convinced’ him to ‘agree’ to attend just as a way to get him out of the workshop.

And she knows him too well, she’s absolutely going to know if he’s still a mess. Which is probably part of her evil plan in the first place.

So Tony shuffles back down the hall, nearly in a daze, and sprawls himself out across the mattress again.

“Hey FRI,” he says, eyes fixed on the same spot on the ceiling that he’s become uncomfortably familiar with, “can we switch up the white noise? I figured out the algorithm on this one and now it’s just driving me crazy. And drop the temperature a couple more degrees. Also, fill the room with toxic gas, if you would.”

“I will do two of those things,” FRIDAY says flatly.

“Do I get to pick which two?” Tony asks, and his attempt at a joking tone falls flat. He’ll have to get it together before he goes out into the world.

FRIDAY’s only answer is the white noise changing ever so slightly, the barely there sound of the AC fans kicking up higher.

Tony sighs and rolls himself up in his blanket. He just needs to sleep, just a little.

It’ll be fine. He’s doing fine.

In the end he gets maybe two hours of fitful, on-and-off sleep. It’s probably a record for the week, so Tony is actually feeling _almost_ optimistic about making it through the day.

An extremely hot shower helps melt some of the ever-present tension out of his shoulders, and even makes his headache fade down to something he can actually ignore.

By the time he’s dressed Tony has managed to pull his functional human mask on too, and he can _totally_ do this.

He manages to hold onto that foolish optimism through the first budget meeting. And the second. He drinks an obscene amount of coffee to keep himself alert and give him enough energy to dance around Pepper’s concerned looks with quick smiles and wry quips.

He just doesn’t want her to worry. She’s worried enough about him, as his assistant and friend and then girlfriend and then back to friend, Pepper has done _more_ than enough worrying about him.

So when she suggests they go over the numbers over lunch, which is just her way of making sure he eats, Tony agrees. His stomach _has_ started complaining at him, and he can’t quite remember the last time he had an actual meal. He knows he _should,_ even if the idea still doesn’t sound all that appealing.

They order from one of his favorite Thai places, and it all tastes like ash in his mouth. A couple bites in his stomach starts to churn and twist but Tony forces himself to keep eating. He has to prove that he’s _fine._

He also forces himself to keep talking, about anything and everything. Rehashing what they just went over in the budget meetings, what they need to go over at the board meeting up next. What she’s been watching lately. A new trick he’s trying to teach DUM-E.

Anything to keep her from getting out any of the questions clearly building up behind her pursed lips. Like he thinks that if he just keeps her from _voicing_ all her worries, he can somehow make them stop existing.

He keeps talking even as his own voice starts to grate against his ears, threatens to bring his headache roaring back.

The last board meeting of the day goes smoothly at least; Tony’s public persona mask stays firmly in place and he manages to ruffle just the right number of feathers, just enough to keep everyone on their toes without fully pissing anyone off.

It’s a game he knows by heart at this point. How far to push, when to give, it’s _easy._ He gets his way with minimal fight, because who’s going to waste energy on a stupid dom pissing match with him?

Everyone knows Tony is a neutral. Everyone knows all the posturing and raised voices and dick-measuring in the world aren’t going to mean a damn thing to him.

Tony has worked really, _really_ hard to _very casually_ make sure everyone knows that.

Tony is a neutral, and it’s the reason he can run a major global company without a serious power struggle every couple years, outside of the obvious Obadiah-exception. It’s the reason he gets away with half the shit he does. And it’s almost definitely the reason Tony was allowed on the Avengers at all, to any degree, his one redeeming quality.

Everyone knows Tony is a neutral.

And Tony really needs to get his shit together if he’s going to make sure it stays that way.

By the end of the meeting he’s ready to go crawling back to his lab and maybe curl up in a dark corner for a couple hours. Or years. His head is full on pounding again, pressure gathering hot behind his eyes and it’s all Tony can do not to squint against the bright overhead lights as everyone else shuffles out.

He did it, he survived. He should be clear for the rest of the week now, and he can spend that time hiding out alone and trying to find a way to _fix this._ Other than the obvious.

The point is, he did it. Tony even manages a smile that very nearly feels real as he gives Pepper a lazy wave and shoves himself to his feet.

“Good job, team,” he says blithely, already turning for the door, “Same time next week, to badger and harass the same old men all over again? Sounds great, can’t wait.”

“Tony,” Pepper says, quiet but firm.

Tony pauses, heart sinking, and dammit, he should have made a faster escape. It’s too late now, that’s her ‘done playing around’ tone, and Tony slowly turns back to face her.

“Are you going to be okay for the charity gala tonight?” she asks. The look on her face is practically begging him to admit that no, no he’s not.

“Yeah, of course,” Tony says instantly. His smile feels stretched tight across his face, wobbling a little as his entire body goes cold.

Fuck.

 _Fuck,_ he’d forgotten about the charity gala tonight. The bright flash of cameras going off in his face followed by hours and hours of shaking hands and smiling and playing nice. All night. All those bright lights, the cacophony of hundreds of voices mixed with music, the smell of a hundred different people’s perfume and cologne, and Tony can _already_ feel his headache upgrading itself to a migraine.

Pepper does not look _at all_ convinced. In fact, she appears to be giving him a look that’s two parts sympathy, five parts trying to figure out when he’s going to break, and maybe one part annoyed. It’s a complicated look, but hey, she’s a complicated woman.

“It’s gonna be a blast,” Tony says.

He turns and leaves before his smile can slip.

* * *

It’s possible that Tony drank that second glass of champagne a little too quickly. Or maybe the third one. Maybe both, but _definitely_ one of them.

The upside though, is that he can no longer _feel_ his head pounding at least. It’s just a vague pressure along the base of his skull. The knots in his back are just a twinge that remind him to keep his shoulders back, keep his smile on.

His mind has gone maybe a _little_ hazy, thoughts a little bubbly, and it’s not what he _needs_ but it’s the closest he’s going to get.

And if he laughs a little too hard at things that aren’t actually that funny, talks a little too big and waves his hands to make his point, just trying to take up a little more space, no one gives it a second thought. It’s not like it’s unusual for Tony to get drunk at these events. It _is_ his party, after all.

His speech goes off without a hitch, which is nice. It means all that time he spent repeating it over and over to himself between fleeing from Pepper’s clever gaze after the board meeting and getting ready for the gala wasn’t for nothing.

It’s easy, all he has to do is ignore the feeling of all those eyes on him and the way it makes his skin crawl, the way it makes his heart lurch and beat double time. He just fixes his gaze on a point in the back of the room and lets the words fall out, smiling cheekily and pausing for scoffs or laughter in all the right places. It’s basically muscle memory at this point.

It’s fine.

The music starts up again with a flourish as he walks down the small flight of stairs off the back of the stage, and Tony resists the urge to wince when his headache comes surging back in time with the high screeching of the violins.

 _Fuck,_ why does he _always_ have to go for the string quartet?

The pounding in his head brings with it a wave of nausea, which is a fun new addition. Tony sets down his newest glass, whiskey this time, only half-empty, on a passing waiter’s tray with a tight smile.

He sucks in a deep breath, swallows thickly, takes another deep breath.

None of it helps, it just feels like he’s gulping down lungfuls of stale air. Every breath is thick with the smell of alcohol and perfume and he can practically _taste_ all the insincerity in the air.

His shirt collar is too tight. Tony’s heart is _pounding_ and he can’t _breathe._ The constant ball of anxiety in his chest is _this close_ to sprouting into a full blown panic attack and he needs to get _out of here._

Tony skirts along the wall and ducks into the first doorway he finds. It leads to some kind of service hallway, painted the same off-white of service hallways in fancy hotels the world over, and that’s fine. It’s perfect.

He just needs to breathe for a second.

Happy is no doubt waiting nearby with the car at Pepper’s instruction. Tony just needs to catch his breath, get himself back under control, and then he can make it across the large ballroom and out to the car.

He has to get out of here, he doesn’t even care if he’s proving Pepper right about how _not_ fine he is. He showed his face, gave his speech, his part is done. He can totally go home now.

He just needs to catch his breath first.

“Hey Tony, it’s been a while.”

The voice comes from behind him and Tony stands bolt upright from where he’s slumped against the wall. His entire body goes cold, torn between freezing and bolting, and by the time he spins on his heel and takes a stumbling step back it’s _too late-_

Ty is already in his space, looming over him.

Tony’s knees wobble dangerously, and between one shaking breath and the next Ty has him backed up against the wall. The too-familiar scent of his cologne is overwhelming and the pleasant smile on his face is completely at odds with the calculating look in his eyes.

“I’m surprised to see you here, I thought you’d moved upstate with the rest of your super friends,” Ty says.

His voice is completely conversational, like they’re standing out amid the rest of the crowd at the gala making small talk, not slowly working their way deeper into the hallway as Tony tries to slide away and Ty continues stepping closer, _closer._

Tony shouldn’t have drank so much. He shouldn’t have drank at _all,_ if his head was just a little clearer maybe he’d be able to do something other than stumble away uselessly until he ends up literally trapped in a corner.

Fuck. How fucking stupid can he be.

An exaggerated fake-pout takes over Ty’s face and his voice is sickly sweet as he asks “Aw, did they leave you behind?”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. It’s not even true, _he’s_ the one that left, there’s no reason his chest should be clenching up painfully. Tony is in the process of convincing himself to actually _say_ that, stupidly feeling like he needs to defend himself in the first place, when Ty speaks again.

“Did that Tony Stark Flare wear off?” he asks, voice still overflowing with pity despite the way his smile has gone sharp and mean. “They finally realized you can’t do anything right, is that it? Took them long enough.”

Tony opens his mouth, has to say _something,_ but then Ty starts to reach for him. He’s not even moving quickly, but Tony still snaps his jaw shut so hard his teeth hurt and flinches back, pressing himself harder into the corner.

“We know the truth though, don’t we Tony? That you’re so useless, even with all the toys and money in the world, they _still_ don’t want you around?” Ty asks and his voice has dropped low, like they’re sharing a secret.

His hand is light against the side of Tony’s head, fingers just barely curling around the back of his skull while his thumb rests against Tony’s cheekbone.

Tony _shakes,_ heart beating so fast it’s actually painful and his head is a little too fuzzy to blame it completely on the alcohol anymore. There’s a hurt noise trying to rise in his throat and Tony swallows it down desperately.

He’s not going to let Ty win, he’s _not._

Tony just has to convince his stupid frozen body to _do something._

Ty clicks his tongue, shaking his head sadly, and asks “You were never going to be a _hero,_ baby, who were you trying to fool? All you managed to accomplish was getting yourself hurt, and now you’ve got all these worry lines ruining your pretty face.”

Tony wants to protests that he _had_ done good, he’d tried, _fuck_ he’d tried, but then Ty’s thumb brushes over the corner of his eye, moves down to the side of his mouth. All Tony can do is try and fail to bite back the whine that slips out of him, and Ty’s smirk gets wider.

“Only one thing you were ever any good for, isn’t that right Tony?” he demands and all traces of warmth or sympathy, however fake they may have been, are gone. His voice is cold and cruel and confident, because he _knows_ he’s right.

Tony drags in another shuddering breath, and when he starts to shake his head Ty’s thumb presses hard into the corner of his lips.

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know it’s true,” Ty says, digging his fingers into the side of Tony’s jaw as well, pinning his head in place. “Aren’t you tired of fighting it, baby? I know what you need, and I’m bored with this game.”

He digs his nail into the edge of Tony’s lip, letting it catch and pull at the skin. Tony just clenches his jaw harder and fixes his eyes on Ty’s ear, doesn’t let himself drop his gaze even if he can’t quite force himself to meet Ty’s eye. Tony can still see it when Ty’s smirk drops away entirely, his face going hard.

“Open that whore mouth,” he growls, voice gone low, and it is unquestionably an _order._

 _Fuck,_ it’s all Tony can do to stop his knees from buckling out from under him, has to slap his palms back against the wall to keep himself standing. There’s not a _damn thing_ he can do to stop the way his mouth falls open, all the air rushing out of him in a low whine.

Instantly Ty’s thumb is sliding over his lower lip, pressing down hard against his tongue while his fingers dig into the hinge of Tony’s jaw, forcing his mouth open _wider._

His skin tastes like an expensive cigar, like scotch and salt and Tony has to fight down the urge to gag. He’s already struggling to swallow all the extra saliva threatening to spill past his slack lips, and the last thing he needs is to start drooling all over himself.

Ty laughs, low and cruel.

“Pathetic, you just get easier and easier, don’t you Tony?” he asks with a sneer, dragging his nail over the flat of Tony’s tongue and crowding in closer.

Tony lets out another soft, hurt sound at the feeling of Ty pressed against him, obviously hard, and Tony’s knees give another wobble even as his skin crawls and his stomach turns.

His eyes are hot and wet and Tony forces them open again when they try to fall closed. He _knows_ what Ty is trying to do and he _can’t let that happen._ No amount of determination or revolt stops the whine that slips out of him when one of Ty’s thighs forces its way between his.

“Come on, you don’t want anyone to know what a pathetic slut you are, do you?” Ty asks, like he _actually cares._

Which, _fuck him_ for still holding this over Tony’s head. It was one thing when they were actually together, and Tony could cling to the slim chance that Ty might actually give a fuck if Tony wound up humiliated.

These days, Tony knows better.

He’s learned his lesson. He’s already been keeping this secret most of his life, and he’s never going to give anyone the power of it ever again.

But that doesn’t make Ty’s point any less true.

“You better hurry up,” Ty says as his smirk grows again, because he can always tell when he’s winning. “The sooner you get on your knees like a good slut and suck me off, the less likely it is someone will stumble back here and find you drooling for it like a _whore.”_

Tony huffs out a breathy sound as his stomach gives another hard lurch, and sure enough when Ty pulls his thumb back slightly, tugging Tony’s lip down, drool spills past the corners of his mouth.

He _could,_ Tony could so easily just give in. It’ll make Ty go away faster, if he just gets what he wants. And it’s not like Tony doesn’t know how to get him off quickly, just get it over with...

But he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want Ty, he doesn’t want to _do this_ _again_ and fuck he should have just _stayed home._ Should have admitted to Pepper that he’s not fine, he’s _so fucking far_ from being fine.

Ty can see him wavering, hesitating, and he presses his thigh up a little harder, grinds himself against Tony’s hip.

“Ah-” Tony gasps as his entire body jerks, torn between flushing hot and running ice cold. He presses his tongue forward against Ty’s thumb, still digging into his lip, torn between trying to push Ty away and the infuriating urge to run his tongue over the pad of Ty’s thumb.

Like he needs to _prove_ something.

“That’s right, Tony,” Ty says with another mean laugh, “You know what you’re good for.”

It would be easier, so much easier, it’s _always_ easier to just give Ty what he wants, and Tony is having trouble remembering all the reasons that he _shouldn’t-_

It drags a sound that’s nearly a sob out of his chest when Tony realizes that he is _terrifyingly close_ to slipping into subspace. Right now. In the service hallway during a charity event, just from Ty’s thumb in his mouth and Ty’s harsh words bouncing around in his ears.

Tony finally pulls his hands away from the wall, shaking and weak as he tries to shove at Ty’s sides instead, tries to lean back even though he’s already pressed firmly against the wall.

Ty’s eyes go hard, his fingers digging painfully into Tony’s cheek, and Tony has to fight down another sob because fuck he _knows_ better. He can’t say no to Ty, he _knows_ that it only makes things worse and Tony can already feels the apologies building in his chest even though they won’t help, he _knows better-_

Tony isn’t sure when his eyes finally managed to fall shut but they snap open again when Ty suddenly takes a step back.

The rush of cold air that washes over him is like a slap in the face, and Tony barely manages to swallow down a pitiful whine even as relief washes through him. He snaps his mouth shut and jerks his head back so hard it cracks painfully against the wall.

It takes another second for Tony to drag his eyes away from Ty’s face, the twitch in his jaw that means he’s _furious_ and trying to hide it, and it’s only then that Tony realizes Ty hadn’t stepped away. He’d been _yanked_ away.

By Happy. Sweet, wonderful Happy, who is here to save him. Who is also giving him a strange look, and Tony has no idea what his face is doing but he tries to school it into a sheepish grin as he tosses Happy a lazy wave.

Hoping like hell he looks like a drunk asshole who’s been caught making out with the scumbag ex all his friends have _forbidden_ him from seeing.

It’s not a great cover, but it’s so much better than the truth.

Happy is still staring at him, but Tony is like ninety percent sure it’s with concern. Not suspicion. Tony is just being paranoid. _Fuck,_ he hopes he’s just being paranoid.

“Hey boss, Pepper thought you might need some help getting to the car,” Happy says pleasantly, like he’s not currently holding Ty’s arm twisted up behind his back, “how about I just get this out of your way and meet you out there.”

Happy doesn’t wait for a response before he spins and starts marching Ty down the hallway, twisting Ty’s arm a little harder when he tries to protest.

It’s for the best, if he had waited any longer Tony probably would have done something super embarrassing, like begging Happy not to leave him alone.

By the time Tony manages to draw in a full breath Happy is already gone, he’s alone in the hallway, and his exhale comes out as a shaking sob.

Tony knows he needs to move, he needs to get out of here, but without anything pinning him in place Tony’s legs finally give out and he slides down the wall instead. It’s no doubt wrinkling his suit all to hell, but that’s the last thing on his mind as he presses his face into his knees.

Fuck, what is _wrong_ with him? Ty is right, how did Tony ever think he could be a _hero_ when he can’t even stand up to his ex? All he has to do now is _leave_ but instead Tony is curled up on the ground crying like a goddamn child, weak and useless without someone telling him what to do.

Just like Ty always said.

Just like his father always said he’d turn out.

Tony curls in tighter around himself as shivers wrack his body, his ragged breathing inter spaced with heaving sobs. The fight or flight adrenaline is fading fast, especially because Tony spectacularly failed to do _either,_ and its place he just feels cold, cold, cold.

He’s well aware that there is a _reason_ he can’t seem to find the strength to get off the ground, can’t stop crying, feels like he’s going to shake apart with every painful inhale, but Tony can’t think about it. He can’t let himself acknowledge it, because there’s nothing he can _do._

He’s alone. Useless.

So instead Tony bites his lip, hugs himself tighter and tries to just wait it out.

“Tony.”

He recognizes the voice, he can and has recognized Pepper’s voice in his sleep, but Tony still flinches and tries to press himself further back against the wall.

“Oh, _Tony_ ,” she says and damn, Tony really must look extra pitiful if she can’t completely hide the waver in her voice. “Do you want to get out of here? Can you stand up?”

Her fingers barely brush against his shoulder and Tony manages to fight down the urge to flinch again. He can’t at all help the way another broken sob works his way out of his chest even as he nods listlessly.

 _Fuck yes_ he wants to get out of here. He wants to go home where he can at least curl up and cry on his own floor while he waits for the big pit of emptiness in his chest to swallow him whole.

So Tony chokes down his next sob and lets Pepper drag him to his feet. She snags his pocket square and gently wipes at his face with it, then leads him down the hall, away from the gala. She doesn’t complain when Tony stumbles and leans against her, just ushers him out a side exit and into the waiting car.

Once they start moving Pepper clutches her hands together in her lap, clearly trying not to hover and fret over him.

“Tony,” she says, voice quiet and firm even as her lower lip wobbles a little, “You can’t go on like this.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says hollowly, even though he doesn’t know why he bothers. His head is slowly starting to clear as the car weaves through late night traffic, and he knows he’s so far past busted that it’s not even funny. There’s no way he can possibly hope to hide how _not_ fine he is, and Pepper’s quiet snort would seem to say she agrees.

“You’re not,” she says, look in her eyes practically _daring_ him to argue. “Tony, you clearly have have one of the worst cases of dom withdrawal I’ve ever _seen-“_

 _“Would you-“_ Tony cuts her off, his gaze flashing in a panic towards the front of the car even though the privacy divider is up. Even though he trusts Happy.

The last time Tony willingly told someone this secret and it _didn’t_ come back to bite him in the ass was Rhodey. He’s learned his lesson.

Pepper’s eyes soften and for about the millionth time Tony wonders why, _why_ he couldn’t be a neutral like her. His life would be so much easier, and maybe they could have even made it work between them.

Probably not, but at least he wouldn’t have to wonder.

“Please,” she says softly, “you have to do something. I know how you feel about finding a new dom, but-” she pauses, and her voice wavers ever so slightly as she says “This is _clearly_ hurting you, Tony, and it’s only getting worse. Please.”

Tony’s breath catches in his throat and he has to drop his eyes from her searching gaze. She’s right, he _knows_ she’s right, he’d very nearly slipped into subspace with barely more than a push and then he’d dropped like a hot stone.

He can’t even _believe_ how lucky he is that no one else stumbled upon him while he was humiliating himself, that Pepper is the only one who saw him completely breaking down.

There’s no way he’ll be so lucky next time.

“I found a service,” Pepper starts and then talks over Tony when he groans unhappily, “I swear I checked them out every possible way, it's completely anonymous until _you_ chose to meet someone, and their NDAs are some of the most thorough I’ve ever seen. You _need_ this.”

“Nuh uh,” Tony says petulantly, because no matter what, he _hates_ being told what he _needs._

He slumps lower in his seat and tries to ignore the way his chest is twisting up with anxiety again at the thought of finding a new dom. Starting this whole nightmare over again.

She _is_ right though, as usual, so Tony just pouts and doesn’t actually argue. He’s exhausted all the way down to his bones, muscles aching and headache picking up again and at this point he doesn’t know what he could possibly say to defend himself.

He pouts harder, because making faces at Pepper is a lot easier than letting himself think about what he already knows he’s about to agree to.

“Stubborn,” Pepper accuses, her lips quirking up in a fond smile.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Tony asks, and feels the smallest of smiles tugging at his own mouth when she lets out a reluctant laugh.

Pepper doesn’t bring it up again for the rest of the drive. She just lets Tony whine childishly at her about nothing, snarks back at him, and Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to explain to her how much he appreciates that she knows when he needs to just pretend everything is normal.

Even if he is still sniffling pitifully and shivering despite the heating cranked way up in the car.

When he waves her off at the elevator, because all he wants is to crawl under his blankets and hold onto his denial just a little bit longer, Pepper gently presses a business card into his hand.

Tony doesn’t need to glance down at it, he can feel something written out on it in her neat but heavy handwriting. He can’t drag his gaze away from the serious look on Pepper’s face, the open pleading in her eyes.

He smiles back tightly, clenches the card in his hand and steps onto the elevator. Pepper continues watching him carefully until the doors close, and only then does Tony let his shoulders slump.

* * *

When he finally finishes feeling sorry for himself, Tony pokes his head out of the pile of blankets he’s buried himself under. The bedroom is still middle-of-the-night dark, rather than blacked-out-window dark, and Tony seriously considers just crawling back into his hole.

But at this point he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to _breathe_ around the tension and anxiety winding tight in his chest, so with a rough sigh Tony shoves himself upright enough to grab his StarkPad off the nightstand.

It takes a little more searching to retrieve the card Pepper had given him, abandoned on the floor with his wrinkled suit, and then Tony returns to the scrap of comfort offered by his blanket nest before actually punching in the site of the matching service.

Setting up a profile is relatively painless, but Tony spends probably entirely too long staring at the required form.

Every new box he reads has the knot in Tony’s chest growing bigger. He doesn’t want to _do this_ again, his stomach is churning with nerves and he grits his teeth as he feels pinpricks of heat behind his eyes again.

Tony firmly reminds himself that he doesn’t have a _choice._ He _does_ need this, no matter how much he tries to deny it. No matter _how much_ _of his life_ he’s spent trying to deny it.

He should have known he’d never get past it. He’d been okay for a while, after he’d gotten back from Afghanistan and finally kicked Ty to the curb for the last time. And Tony had really thought he’d be able to make it work, especially once he joined the Avengers, thought he’d be able to (mostly) follow orders in battle and snark back the rest of the time and it would be _enough,_ no one else would have to _know._

But Tony had ruined that, just like he ruins everything. He got himself into this mess and now he has to deal with the consequences.

So he grits his teeth, forces himself to keep moving down the checklist and not think about it, just don’t think about it.

The second part of the form turns out to be even more complicated, because how the hell is Tony supposed to fill in what he _wants,_ when he doesn’t want to be doing this at all?

And what the hell is he even supposed to put? What dom is going to want an older sub in the first place, much less one who’s honestly tired of being smacked around at this point?

Tony hovers his finger over the screen, breath catching and threatening to turn to sobs again at any second. He knows what he _should_ put, if he wants to have a chance of actually matching with anyone, wants to actually be chosen. He knows what he’s good for, after all.

But he doesn’t _want_ a match.

A near hysterical laugh bubbles up in Tony’s chest as something occurs to him, and then he starts poking viciously at the screen. Starts filling out the remaining checkboxes with an almost aggressive honesty, and Tony chokes out another giggle.

There’s no way he’s going to match with anyone.

It’s not going to be Tony’s fault, either, he filled out the form exactly the way he’s supposed to, completely honest.

And at least when he goes completely crazy alone in his lab, he’ll be able to say he tried.

Tony hits _submit_ and swallows down another weak laugh as he tosses the tablet down towards the end of the bed and curls up under his blankets again.

At least he’ll be able to tell Pepper that he tried.

* * *

Tony doesn’t really sleep, just tosses and turns and tries not to cry. Tries to fight off the echoes of Ty’s voice still bouncing around in his head.

When the sky starts to grow brighter Tony gives up and drags himself out of bed again.

Shuffling to the kitchen and starting the coffee machine is a mindless routine, too familiar to provide any distraction from the hollow throb in his chest.

Even his favorite coffee is tasteless, but Tony stares at the wall and chugs it down anyways before making his way back to the bedroom, scrubbing his hands over his face. His eyes feel swollen, his skin stretched too-tight, and Tony abruptly abandons his plans to get dressed in favor of crawling right back into bed.

He’s ahead on basically everything, it’s the biggest upside to burying himself so thoroughly in his work. He can afford to take a day off for an extended pity party.

He jostles the StarkPad still at the end of the bed as he rearranges the blankets, making the screen light up to display one new notification and Tony feels his heart stop dead in his chest.

No.

There’s no way.

Tony is helpless to stop himself from reaching out and scooping up the tablet, he already knows what he’s going to see but he can’t stop himself.

 ** _New match found_**.

His head already ached from spending most of the night crying, and now Tony can feel it pounding in time with his panicked heartbeat. Even though it kind of makes sense, the service boasts the highest match rate so _of course_ they have to stretch the definition of ‘match’ sometimes. Just pick the closest dom and move on.

It makes sense, but Tony still spends a couple seconds frozen in horror before he can actually make himself check the notification.

He’d thought he’d be safe. So fucking stupid.

* * *

* * *

Tony stares at the profile in a sort of numb haze, barely even taking in the words the first couple times he reads them over.

Unexpectedly, a sound starts to rise in his chest that’s almost like a hysterical giggle, a little breathless because he can’t seem to get enough air around the huge knot in his chest.

 _“Oh no,”_ Tony whispers to himself in horror, “He’s a _hipster.”_ Tony lets out another strangled laugh and then lifts his head to address the empty room at large as he demands “Who seriously still listens to _vinyl?!”_

Yeah, Tony can admit to himself that he’s focusing on the _‘about me’_ section a little more than he probably should be, because he’s trying really hard _not_ to think about anything else. He still can’t believe he actually got a match, that wasn’t supposed to _happen._

And seriously, how is he supposed to _not_ scoff at the phrase _‘my sub will be treasured and adored’?_ Forget the fact that that’s not a _thing,_ who even talks like that?!

At least the guy likes whiskey. That’s something Tony can get behind.

Finally Tony gives up on stalling, accepts that the pit of nerves in his stomach isn’t going to go away, and forces himself to actually focus on the checklist. He has to hand it to the site, the match is actually way closer than he’d expected.

A lot of their hard limits seem to line up, and even when he scrolls through the whole list again Tony can’t find anything particularly objectionable.

It looks too good to be true, in fact, and Tony knows exactly what _that_ means. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen a dom make all sorts of promises only to completely flip the script once they actually had someone in their clutches, after all.

But that’s fine, Tony only has to meet the guy once.

He just needs to get this stupid, compulsive _need_ out of his system, and then he’ll be fine for another couple years. Hopefully.

Maybe he’ll at least be able to _pretend_ he’s fine again.

And even if the guy does decide to show his real face right off the bat, at least his listed experience means he _probably_ knows what he’s doing. So that’s something.

Tony has very nearly managed to fight down the anxiety knotting up in his chest, to convince himself that this _won’t_ be a disaster, when he abruptly realizes it doesn’t _matter._

A match doesn’t mean shit if the guy doesn’t actually want to meet him, which, why would he?! Tony is just a used up sub on the wrong side of forty, his form is basically a list of things he _doesn’t_ want to do, and his profile wasn’t exactly sparkling.

He has to remind himself that that’s exactly what he _wanted._ There’s no reason for Tony to feel like his stomach is sinking down into the mattress and through the floor, and there is _absolutely_ no reason his heart should give a painful little twinge of rejection.

Tony shoves his tablet away again with a disgusted groan and flops back down onto his back amid the tangled blankets, pressing his hands over his eyes.

He didn’t want a dom in the first place, and now here he is feeling miserable because he’s not going to find one.

Stupid. So stupid.

He pulls his pillow over his face, tugs up the blanket again, and he’s just settling in to mope while hating himself for it when his tablet makes a weird chiming noise he’s never heard before.

It only takes a second for Tony to realize it must be the new app, and before he can stop himself he’s flailing his way upright again.

He has a new message.

Tony has to stare at the notification for a while before it sinks in, and he doesn’t even _try_ to sort through the wild assortment of conflicting feelings bouncing around in his head as he raises one shaking hand to poke at the screen again.

His first thought is absolutely that it’s some kind of mistake. Or a joke.

But try as he might, he can’t find an ounce of mockery in the short message, and it isn’t immediately followed by one that says _‘oops wrong person’_ or something along those lines, so.... apparently this centennial hipster guy actually _meant_ to message him.

Tony is so busy trying to wrap his head around that, he barely notices his fingers moving across the screen until he’s hitting send on a reply.

Centennial Man  
  
It looks like we’re a pretty good match, which is hard to find these days, are you still looking for a dom?  
I’m honestly surprised I got a match, I don’t know anyone who wants a sub like me  


It’s a good thing Tony is alone, because the horrified groan that bursts out of him would probably have someone thinking he’s being murdered in some terrible way. Hell, if FRIDAY couldn’t monitor his vitals to know that he’s not dying, just being dramatic, she’d probably be calling an ambulance.

But _seriously,_ Tony can’t believe his own fingers have betrayed him this way. That was too honest, _way_ too honest, and frankly pretty pathetic too. He quickly types out a follow up, wincing the entire time because he is very sure he’s already screwed this up but he also can’t stop himself.

Centennial Man  
  
I mean; Hi  
or whatever people say on these things  


_Oh yeah, great recovery, very smooth,_ Tony thinks to himself with a snort. There’s that famous Stark charm. Who _wouldn’t_ want to meet that self-deprecating disaster?

Apparently, Centennial Man wouldn’t, because there’s no further messages.

After about ten minutes of just staring at the screen, Tony realizes he’s actually _waiting_ for a response and he shoves the tablet away in disgust.

What is _wrong_ with him? He didn’t even _want_ this, still doesn’t, and yet here he is, feeling that stupid sting of rejection rising in his chest.

Tony throws himself out of bed so aggressively that he gets a little tangled in the blanket and nearly goes crashing to the floor. He barely manages to catch himself, and is once again incredibly glad that he’s alone.

And if that thought also makes him a little sad, well that’s just one more thing to shove down and ignore.

All the anxiety that he’d managed to fight down overnight between fitful bouts of sleep is coming swirling back, hard to breathe around, and before Tony is even aware he’s made a decision he’s moving.

He just needs a distraction, needs to not let himself think about this anymore, so Tony throws on some jeans and an old T-shirt and heads down to the lab.

If he spends the entire day wallowing in bed like he’d originally planned, then he’s just going to spend the whole time _thinking about it._ He might as well take advantage of the fact that at least his headache has died down.

And if he makes sure to grab his phone to bring it down to the lab with him, well that’s just because he might need it for work. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.

Tony can tell himself that he’s not waiting for a response all he wants, but when his phone chimes again he’s painfully aware that it’s been exactly three hours and some odd minutes, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about the way his heart tries to lurch hopefully in his chest.

Maybe Pepper is right about him needing to get out of the house more, talk to people who _aren’t_ technically his employees. Or his bots.

She can _never know._

Tony’s hands are only a little unsteady as he digs his phone out of his pocket to check the new message, and what he finds startles a laugh of disbelief out of him.

Centennial Man  
  
What’s wrong with a sub like you? I like your profile, it’s interesting  
If by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘annoying,’ then sure  
I’m VERY interesting  
lol I like that you’ve got spark, it’s hard to find someone who’s sharp and witty like that these days  


_‘Sharp and witty’,_ yeah that’s definitely _one_ way to describe him, Tony thinks to himself with a snort. He’s about to insist that the word the guy is looking for is ‘obnoxious’, but figures if he wants even a chance of this working he shouldn’t talk himself down _too_ hard.

Not that he actually _wants_ this to work, he reminds himself firmly.

He doesn’t. He’s not _that_ starved for affection, that some strange dom liking his _‘spark’_ is going to make him go all warm and squirmy inside.

He’s _not._

Maybe just a little.

Tony shoves that down as hard as he can, both the thought and the feeling, and types out the first thing that comes to mind.

Centennial Man  
  
Ha, “these days.” As opposed to the “old days” there, centennial man??  
lol what can I say, I’m an old soul  
Oh god, I knew it  
You’re a hipster  
You get that word outta your mouth darlin, I’m nothing of the sort  


Tony can’t help a soft laugh at that, and apparently this guy really is from Brooklyn, he even _texts_ with the drawl and Tony has to stop himself from wondering what it sounds like in person.

It’s just that he’s very sure he’s never been called ‘darling’ before in his _life,_ and he’s not quite sure what to make of it.

He’s also not sure what to do with the smile trying to grow on his face, the unfamiliar, cautious optimism trying to spread through his chest, so he just focuses on typing out a reply.

Centennial Man  
  
Uh huh, we’ll just have to see about that  
Does that mean you want to meet?  


Well shit, that is _not_ what Tony had meant, probably should have put a little more thought into that.

Or that _is_ what he meant, and he just doesn’t want to admit it to himself.

One of the two.

Tony slumps down onto his stool, chewing on his lip, his thumbs hovering over his phone screen as he tries to decide how to answer.

He could say no, and that would be the end of it. Probably the end of the entire conversation, and Tony does his best to ignore the twinge of disappointment _that_ thought has rising up in his chest.

Meeting a dom _is_ kind of the point of this whole thing, after all. And this Centennial Man seems... surprisingly _not_ awful so far. He didn’t snap or stop responding when Tony couldn’t resist some light teasing, and it’s honestly way better than he could have expected.

Abruptly, Tony realizes he’s been just staring at his phone for maybe a little too long, it’s definitely going to get awkward any second now, if it hasn’t already. He has to say _something._

Centennial Man  
  
I... suppose I wouldn’t be wholly opposed to it  
lol what a ringing endorsement  
😜   
Well, if you’re interested, I’m free tomorrow night after work-anytime after six  


Wow. Okay. That’s... sooner than Tony had expected. Not that he’s entirely sure what he _had_ been expecting, maybe next week sometime, not _tomorrow._

It’s probably for the best though, if the whole _Tony Stark_ thing is going to be a deal breaker, it’s probably best to get that out of the way now. And he _had_ kind of waited until the last possible minute to start looking for a dom in the first place.

Might as well get it over with.

Centennial Man  
  
That could work for me, I’ll just have you meet me at my office  
Great! Shoot me the address and time you want me there and any other info I need and I’ll see you then!  
Sounds good my hip young friend  
Stop it 🤫 no hipsters allowed  
lol whatever you say. You are very UNhip  
You got it darlin 😉  


* * *

When Tony tells Pepper he’s going to take over one of the executive visitor’s offices for the day, he can practically _hear_ her confusion.

“You have your own office,” she says slowly, like she’s legitimately concerned that he’s forgotten.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to meet a random stranger in _my_ office,” Tony says with a roll of his eyes, even though he’s alone in the lab and there’s no one around to see it, “what if he touches my stuff?”

“Why are- _oh!_ Oh my god, you found someone?!”

Tony has to hand it to her, it doesn’t take her long at all to put the pieces together and it’s obnoxious, is what it is, the way the open excitement and relief in her voice makes him feel all warm and fuzzy. It almost makes him glad he’s doing this, if only so Pepper will stop worrying over him.

“Yeah yeah, let’s not get _too_ excited,” Tony huffs, because he has _no idea_ how this is going to go, and the last thing he needs is to feel like he’s letting her down too if it all blows up in his face.

“Right,” Pepper says quickly, voice back to professional, and she really is the best. “We don’t have anyone from the satellite offices visiting right now, so the whole floor is yours.”

“Great,” Tony says, but he’s pretty sure his voice gives away how _not_ great he’s feeling.

Now he just has to message the guy, and he can start properly freaking out.

Centennial Man  
  
200 Park Ave, 7pm, suite 2732  
Just tell the front desk you’re meeting Antonio and they’ll send you up to me  
I’ll tell them to be on the lookout for hipsters  
lol you’re a sharp one, aren’t you darlin?  
I’ve been told I’m mouthy, yes  
You sure are darlin, good thing I like that in a lover  
Lover?? Who even uses that term anymore?  
Told you, I’m an old soul 😉  
lol whatever you say old man  
👴🏻 get off my lawn!  
😂  


* * *

By the time 6:30 rolls around the next day, Tony is pacing the office in a cold sweat, nervous and nearly sick to his stomach with a twisted mix of anxiety and hope.

He’s already gone over the entire office, more of a suite really, in an attempt to distract himself, but it hasn’t helped. On the upside, he found a diamond earring wedged in the drain of the sink in the attached bathroom, someone’s empty flask in the back of a drawer, and he’s pleasantly surprised by how well stocked the mini fridge is kept even when no one is using it.

His suit jacket is already tossed over the back of the desk chair and Tony still feels too hot, like his skin is stretched too tight, heart pounding almost painfully in his chest.

This was a mistake. He should call the whole thing off, he should-

When his phone chimes Tony jumps so hard he nearly comes out of his skin. He only fumbles a little as he pulls out his phone, which is surprising considering how sweaty his hands are, and what he finds startles a soft laugh out of him.

Centennial Man  
  
On my way up. I’ll be the hipster in the man bun  
I’ll be the one with the scissors to cut it off for you, no thanks necessary  
Rude  
I’m doing you and the world a favor  
🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻  


Tony is aware that he’s smiling down at his phone, small and wobbly as the expression may be—what he’s not sure of is how he _feels_ about it.

In every conversation he’s had with Centennial Man, short as they may be, they guy has been funny and kind and... _likeable._ It’s making this very complicated for Tony, because he wasn’t supposed to be likeable, he was supposed to be tolerable at _best_ and now, now Tony doesn’t know how to _feel._

What if this _doesn’t_ end in a complete disaster? It probably will. But what if it _doesn’t?_

There’s a knock at the door, and Tony abruptly finds that he’s too dry mouthed to say _come in_ , can’t seem to force out a single word at all. But it doesn’t matter, because moments later the door opens and he completely freezes, stopping dead in the act of pacing around the room as his brain fuzzes over.

Because that’s _James Fucking Barnes,_ Steve’s BFF who Tony has met a grand total of one time, and oh yeah, also _murdered his parents,_ and what the _fuck_ is happening here?

Is this the last gasps of Hydra, finally come to finish him off?

Or maybe they’ll just kidnap him, that’s a pretty popular option, and then use him as a weapon, too.

Just like they did to Barnes.

Sure, Steve swore up and down that Barnes is _better,_ that he just wants to make a new life for himself and be left alone, but Steve also hadn’t mentioned that Barnes _killed Tony’s parents_ until he absolutely had to. So Tony feels justified in a healthy amount of skepticism.

Fuck.

He can’t move, he can barely breathe around the rapidly growing knot in his chest because seriously, _what the fuck is happening?_

Tony can only stare as Barnes asks him something, the words garbled and distant, like they’re coming from somewhere very far away rather than just across the suddenly too-small office, entirely too close. The ringing sound in his ears growing louder as Barnes takes a half step forward, nearly deafening when combined with Tony’s blood thundering through his veins, the ragged sound of his own breath.

Tony flinches back, running on pure instinct, his next sharp inhale burning all the way down into his lungs. He stops short when the back of his thighs bump against something and he realizes with another jolt of fear that he’s backed himself up against the desk, and has nowhere else to go.

 _Trapped_.

Barnes says something else, and Tony at least manages to make out that it’s supposed to be some kind of assurence that Barnes isn’t here to hurt him, and Tony would laugh if he could seem to get his rapid breathing under control.

Because Bucky Barnes is the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier is dangerous. Ergo, Tony is in danger. There’s no other explanation here that makes a damn bit of sense.

Tony’s body screams at him to run, but he can’t move, can’t think, can only suck in air and shake and shake and _shake._

“Stark, _Tony_ , I need you to sit down,” Barnes orders and the words themselves might still be a little hard to focus on, but the dom command in his voice crisp and clear and unambiguous, as is the way he points at the couch in the corner of the suite.

Even if sitting down _does_ actually sound like a pretty good idea right now, Tony kind of hates the way he obeys without a shred of thought. His knees wobble as he moves, and he doesn’t sit on the couch so much as he collapses down onto it, pressing himself into the corner like he thinks he could possibly hide.

Barnes says something else, but Tony has kind of lost track of everything happening around him. His head is foggy and spinning slightly, his breathing entirely too fast, throat raw and dry, and all he can do is nod, hoping that’s the right reaction as panic and fear try to choke the life out of him, forcing a low whine out of his chest.

He’s not sure how much time passes before Barnes is in front of him, draping a blanket around his shoulders before he’s kneeling beside the couch and admittedly looking a little less terrifying for it as he offers Tony an open bottle of water.

Tony tries, he tries _so hard_ to just be good and drink it, because his brain may be ninety percent static but he at least knows enough to know he needs to do whatever the dom in front of him tells him to. But he’s shaking so hard he can’t quite manage it, water spilling down his chin and no doubt getting on his shirt.

He whines again, cringing away and pressing himself harder into the arm of the couch. Tony is dimly aware that he’s saying something, and he can only hope that it’s some kind of apology as his entire body goes tense, waiting for the blow he _knows_ is coming.

Instead, confusingly, he gets Barnes’ hand on his knee, squeezing gently. His voice is soft and encouraging as he offers Tony the water again, the gentle command in his tone more of an undertone than anything, like a warm blanket slipping around his shoulders.

Tony leans forward again, managing _not_ to make a fool of himself as sips from the bottle, and the cool water does actually feel nice on his burning throat. Things do not get any less confusing as Barnes proceeds to hand feed him diced fruit and small bits of chocolate, but it’s actually helping so Tony is _not_ planning on complaining.

Plus, he may have been too nervous to eat earlier, and even the small bites of food are going a long way to settle his rolling stomach. And okay fine, Barnes’ quiet encouragement goes a long way too, something in Tony’s chest finally starting to unwind at the warm “You’re doing so good sweetheart, take some nice easy breaths for me.”

All he has to do is what Barnes says. Eat the fruit, sip the water, breathe slowly. Repeat.

Tony isn’t sure how long it takes to come back to himself, for his head to stop spinning and his breath to finally slow, for his heart to stop feeling like it’s about to beat straight out of his chest, but when Barnes leans away to sit back on his heels it leaves Tony feeling unexpectedly cold.

The small container of fruit gets left in Tony’s lap, nearly empty now, and he picks at it between shooting glances up at Barnes and finally wiping the last drops of spilled water from his chin.

Now that his head is a little clearer Tony can finally put together what’s actually happening here, and later, when he feels a little less like he’s about to shake apart at any second, it might even be funny. Of all the doms in New York, he just had to get matched with Bucky Fucking Barnes.

What it doesn’t explain is why Barnes is still _here,_ watching Tony back, his gaze steady and maybe a little cautious, stormy blue grey eyes bright and curious. Why Tony has the surprisingly soft throw blanket from the couch around his shoulders, the taste of chocolate lingering on his tongue and the faint smell of engine grease and well-worn tools lingering in the air, all of which are doing an amazingly good job of calming him down.

He’d always heard that the Winter Soldier was clever.

That Bucky Barnes was too.

He wonders how much of the Soldier still remains inside Barnes’s head, what exactly he sees when he looks at Tony.

“Why did you do that?” Tony blurts abruptly, because that’s the one thing he can’t figure out here. Why the hell would Barnes stick around at all, much less to take care of a random sub so weak they fell apart the moment they saw a dom.

(Not just any dom, Bucky fucking Barnes.)

Barnes frowns at the question, and Tony has to resist the urge to flinch again.

“Take care of you you mean?” he asks, brow wrinkling further as Tony nods jerkily. “Because you were in distress; seemed like an anxiety attack, or panic, but I dunno, I couldn’t leave you like that. Wouldn’t be right.”

_It wouldn’t be right._

Christ, that sounds so much like Steve it _almost_ makes him smile. 40’s boys with their home grown earnestness and sweet smiles.

It still doesn’t make this make any more sense, though.

“But I’m not your sub,” Tony feels the need to point out, swallowing down the ridiculous urge to cry at his own words.

He’d known this more than likely wouldn’t work out, there’s no point getting upset about it. No point letting out the whine that’s trying to build in his chest again.

Barnes quirks one eyebrow at that, and then shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter. I’d be a shitty dom if I didn’t take care of a sub that was hurting in front of me. Anyone hurting in front of me, I’d help.”

Well. That’s not at all what Tony was expecting.

He shoves another piece of chocolate into his mouth so he won’t blurt out that he doesn’t _get_ that, that if anything it just makes him _more_ confused. Because in his experience doms don’t give a shit about hurting whoever is in front of them. And they _certainly_ don’t go out of their way to help a sub they don’t know.

Tony sighs heavily, suddenly feeling exhausted all the way down to his core. He does his best to pull his mask back into place, but he has a feeling he’s not very successful. His attempt at a smile feels weak and wobbling, and it doesn’t help that he can’t bring himself to meet Barnes’ eyes for more than a second at a time.

“Well you did your good deed for the year, you can go,” he says, nodding toward the door and completely failing in his attempt to keep his voice light.

Barnes frowns and shifts, but instead of getting up he lowers himself to sit cross legged on the floor, like he’s _settling in._ “Do you _want_ me to leave?” he asks, still in that low, calming voice that Tony doesn’t know what to _do with,_ “I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re still shaky.”

Tony wants to snap that he’s not _shaky_ , but his hands are still trembling and his chest feels tight, so instead he just shakes his head and looks away again.

Jesus, he really fucked this up even worse than he’d expected, and apparently he hadn’t done as well a job as he’d thought of shoving down all that pesky hope earlier, because Tony can feel it shriveling up to nothing in his chest. So much for finding a dom, he really should have known better.

“Told you that you wouldn’t want a sub like me,” he mutters bitterly, swallowing down the coppery taste of disappointment and firmly telling himself that he’s _not_ going to cry.

Barnes makes a soft noise, like he’s upset, and Tony can’t help flinching again, just a little.

“That’s just _not_ true darlin’,” Barnes murmurs, voice still low and soothing and sweet. “You’re funny and smart and kind, and you do more good for the world than most people know.” When Barnes pauses to laugh softly Tony can’t help looking up curiously, mostly confused because there’s not a hint of mockery in the laughter. “I’d be honored to have you as my sub darlin’, believe me.”

Barnes tops that off with a smile that’s warm and almost _hopeful,_ lighting up his whole face, and it hits Tony right in the chest.

Tony feels himself _blushing_ of all fucking things, looking away hastily under the steady gaze even as he swallows down a hysterical giggle at the thought that oh, _that’s_ what that _‘darlin’_ sounds like in person.

For possibly the first time in his life, Tony can’t think of a damn thing to say.

He doesn’t even know where to _start,_ all he can do is stare down at his lap, watch his hands continue to shake, and idly wonder if maybe he panicked so hard he passed out and this is some kind of crazy hallucination. It would actually explain a lot.

“Listen,” Barnes murmurs, smiling softly when Tony jerks his eyes up again, “Why don’t you think about things for a few days and message me when you know what you want. No pressure.”

He seems to be waiting for an answer of some kind, but try as he might Tony can’t force out a single word past the sob caught in his throat. Finally Tony just nods wordlessly, but that seems to be enough.

Barnes starts to push himself to his feet, then pauses and his voice is still warm with concern as he asks “Are you okay? If I leave, will you be alright?”

Tony has to clear his throat before he can speak, and his voice still comes out rough and terrible as he says “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s a short ride up to the penthouse.” Barnes nods, but he doesn’t look totally convinced, so Tony works up a weak smile and tries his best to look reassuring. “I’ll be fine.”

Barnes clearly pauses for another second or two, then climbs to his feet. He hesitates again, standing in front of the couch and looking impressively awkward and unsure for someone so huge, like he’s not sure what to do or say and hey at least that makes two of then.

Finally Barnes smiles again, lets out a nervous little laugh that has no right being so adorable, and Tony has to duck his chin down again because he has a terrible feeling his blush is making a return.

He hears Barnes murmur out a quick goodbye, and by the time Tony looks up again he’s gone.

They always did say the Winter Soldier was a ghost.

Tony hunches down over his knees, pulling the throw blanket closer around him, and finally stops trying to hold back the broken noise that’s been building in his chest.

* * *

Tony isn’t sure how long he sits on the couch after Barnes leaves, just trying to get himself to stop _shaking,_ but it’s long enough for the sky to go fully dark.

He drags himself up to the penthouse in a daze, crawls into bed in all his clothes, and if he lets out a couple more quiet sobs before he passes out, well that’s between him and FRIDAY.

He sleeps for nearly twelve hours and wakes up blinking in confusion at the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, feeling more clear headed than he has in a while. Longer than he can remember, honestly, and it’s _that_ a depressing thought.

His chest still feels tight, eyes hot and sore, but at least his headache is gone. That _almost_ makes the confusing mess of yesterday worth it all on his own.

It’s not surprising that he has several missed calls and messages, mostly from Pepper, wanting to know how it went. What _is_ surprising is that he also has a couple new messages from Centennial Man, which, yeah Tony totally gets that username now. Very clever.

He has to work up the nerve to actually open the messages, very sure that what he’s going to see is that Barnes has understandably changed his mind. Has decided that a damaged sub is so far from worth the trouble of dealing with _Tony Stark._

Tony can’t really blame him, _he_ doesn’t even want to deal with Tony Stark most days.

When he finally forces himself to open the app, just get it over with, like ripping off a bandaid, what he finds instead has his breath catching in his throat.

Centennial Man  
  
Tony, I’m sorry if I scared you tonight, please know I had NO idea it was you I was coming to meet  
I won’t lie and say I wasn’t shocked to see you, but I also can’t say I was disappointed. You’re an incredible man, Tony, and I’d be honored to have you as my sub  
I do want you to know Tony, if I never hear from you again that’s totally fine, but I hope you find someone to take care of you like you deserve  


It takes Tony almost an hour to even decide _how_ he wants to respond to that, and it’s nearly half a day later that he actually works up the guts to send a message of his own.

His hands are shaking as he drops his phone back down to the work table and then leans down and presses his forehead to the cool surface as well, letting out a hard breath.

No going back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is unable to see the spreadsheet of kink clearly, click [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1HbBLfOp4LEs7ctLiWn59-aDt8gJRXceSigYUO5sZVMA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> Saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say in the comments!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
> 😭 = I got you right in the feels  
> 🔥 = this was so hot!  
> 🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a year, and Bucky thought he would feel a _little_ better by now. But the anxiety and insomnia just keep getting worse, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can deal with this level of PTSD. 
> 
> Except that’s not the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written by WhiteIronWolf
> 
> [You can find me @TheRollingStonys on tumblr! Just ask for Mod Stella!](https://therollingstonys.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Join us in our tumblr group chat and get sneak peeks of new chapters, discuss meta and headcanons, and participate in easter egg hunts for spoilers!](https://www.tumblr.com/chat/0_JOa_w6Jki6xyaWadq4Ww/bound-to-you)

_There’s blood on his hands and he doesn’t know whose it is._

_He doesn’t know where he is, **who** he is. _

_Everything around him is white, cold and sterile._

_Blood drips from his fingertips, the sound of it echoing through the blank space, filling his ears._

_The smell of copper is in his nose and heavy on his tongue, thick and bitter, and when he swallows he can feel it coating his throat._

_The whiteness flickers like lightning and screams rush into the space around him, echoing till he can’t hear himself breathe or think._

_Black spatters on the walls and on his skin, covers his eyes like a mask, seals his mouth like a muzzle and no, no no no_

_Get it off_

_Get it **off!** _

_Red burns into his eyelids, and he can feel it, sticky and wet like blood, horror all around him._

Bucky jolts awake, breath sawing out of his chest, metal hand clenched in a fist, the torn threads of his sheets between his fingers. He’s slick with sweat and shaking, skin like ice and head throbbing with red hot agony.

Flopping back against the damp sheets he throws an arm over his eyes and heaves out a breath, throat working hard as he struggles to breathe through the panic surging in his system.

He’s not sure if he’s going to choke or throw up and neither sound particularly appealing at the moment so he forces himself to breathe as steadily as he can and focus on his heartbeat in his ears.

_Control Asset! You must have **control!**_

He flinches again and a whine scrapes out of his raw throat, a sob clawing its way up behind it, but he stifles it, metal fist pressed to his teeth, the bitter taste of it sending a tremor over his spine.

It’s been a year since that day in DC when Steve had told him to end it, and _still_ , the nightmares haunt him.

He’s not sure he’ll ever be free of them.

He lays there till the sweat dries on his skin and his breathing is regular again. Sometimes he hates that he doesn’t have the same control now as he did when he was the Asset, but he’ll happily sacrifice all the control in the world to not be a monster anymore.

Huffing a tired sigh, he scrubs a hand over his face and glances between his fingers at the old alarm clock beside his bed.

3:27am

As good a time as any to get up, he supposes.

It’s not like he sleeps much anymore anyway. He’s used to being tired and empty, like he’s been hollowed out of everything that made him a man and had it replaced with a machine, a robot...an _asset._

As much as he doesn’t want it to be true, he’s still got part of that inside him.

Pushing aside the sheets, he shoves his hands through his hair and inhales, closes his eyes and steels himself for a moment before rising from the bed and stripping off the damp and ruined sheets.

He tosses the fitted sheet in the trash and adds the rest to the washer with his sweaty gym clothes he’d thrown in last night. Once that’s done he pulls on sweats and a hoodie, the rips in the fabric familiar and comforting.

His sneakers are just as beaten up as his clothes, but it’s not like he cares—everything he owns is second hand.

There was a time, long, _long_ , ago when he would have cared, but _that_ him—the peacocking, partying, pretty young man, he’s _long_ gone.

He wonders sometimes if the man he was would recognize the man he is now.

He slips out the front door of his apartment into the night, the streets illuminated in shades of yellow and red from the lights of the city.

Much like him, it never sleeps.

The air is cool and damp on his face as he jogs, pace steady as his legs eat up the concrete in long strides. His breathing is steady and even, thoughts lingering on his nightmares.

They’ve been happening more and more lately, interrupting his limited sleep and leaving him tense and anxious during the daytime hours of his life. Or well, _more_ tense and anxious than usual.

Even the guys at the shop have started to notice and they’re all as emotionally intelligent as a stack of hay.

He’s not really sure _why_ it’s been happening more, or why his mood has been so completely and utterly shit, but nothing he does seems to fix it.

He’s talked with Sam and even Steve a few times, tried changing his diet and cut back on caffeine (not that it has that much effect on him, what with the serum), and still, he feels on edge _constantly._

His teeth ache from his jaw grinding in his sleep and clenching during the day and his neck is constantly stiff and sore. So often he wants to cry, but his eyes are dry and tired and sore, like he’s been watching a target through his scope for three days with no sleep.

He doesn’t remember everything from his time with Hydra, but he remembers _that_ —the endless waiting for the perfect shot, the satisfaction of a job well done when the target was dead. It sickens him now, seeing unknown faces in his nightmares, some of them dead and still, others bloody and begging.

No matter how far he runs, he can’t outpace his demons.

He runs till the sun is rising and his clothes are soaked in sweat, till the streets are beginning to bustle with Wall Street suits and hot dog vendors, and the air is thick with the honking and shouting of legions of taxi drivers.

The city lives and breathes around him, but he’s numb to it by now, it’s just white noise.

He shoves his shoulder into his door and wiggles the key three times to the left before it unsticks and lets him in. He barely bothers to lock it most days—there’s not much here of value, and anyone stupid enough to break in while he’s here will meet an unpleasant end.

He showers, fries up half a dozen eggs, and slams back a protein shake before he dresses for work and is back out the door just as the clock turns to 7am. The walk to work is littered with kids going to school and moms in yoga pants chatting with their friends.

The old neighborhood isn’t like it used to be.

He doesn’t know his neighbors and he doesn’t even really _want_ to know them. They don’t know who he is, and he prefers it that way. Most assume his arm is from the wars in the Middle East and he doesn’t do much to disavow them of that idea.

Better _that_ than the truth.

It’s 7:32 when he unlocks the door to the garage and turns the lights on, the overhead fluorescent lights flickering for a moment before settling with a low buzz that’s too quiet for anyone with regular hearing to notice, but always sets his teeth on edge.

He turns on the coffee maker and opens the beat up old laptop Mr. Blake had gotten from his grandsons after they had dropped it and spilled Red Bull on the keyboard. It’s been refurbished three times since Bucky started here nearly a year ago, but still, the old man won’t buy a new one.

While both machines warm up he goes across the street to the panadería and waves hello to Carmine as she works the dough for the lunch rush empanadas. Luís boxes up a mix of pan dulces—the besos and borrachitos are Bucky’s favorite and Luís winks as he adds two extra, free of charge.

Bucky takes it with a nod and shoves a fifty in the tip jar when neither of the owners are looking.

Their son Giancarlo is going to college, the first in his family, and Bucky has more than enough money to get by, (even if he can't afford a nicer apartment or a car) since Steve gave him a chunk of the back pay the US Army had doled out to him after his reawakening in the future. 

It’s not much, but he does what he can.

He remembers the days of barely scraping by, of empty stomachs and nights lying awake because his stomach felt hollow, hunger caving inward with claws, twisting and ripping till he’d wanted to cry.

But it meant more food for Stevie, and he’d never regretted going without so he could keep his best friend alive.

He has a lot of regrets, but that’s not one of them.

By the time he gets back, the scent of coffee is warm in the air—strong with hazelnut and cocoa notes that he’s pretty sure no one else picks up on.

He thinks back on those days with Steve at their old place when they’d use the same grounds for days, trying to make it last as long as possible. The coffee in the military had been bitter and black as night, strong enough to burn a hole in your gut and perfect for keeping the men awake long enough to get shot by some goddamn Nazi sniper.

If there’s anything positive to be said about the future it’s the frankly _staggering_ amount of choice when it comes to coffee. There’s so much choice for _everything_ now, rows and rows of food at the stores, always full, always open, brightly lit like a beacon, drawing people in.

He’d stood there in awe the first time he’d ventured into a store, in the days after DC, tears in his eyes when he saw the stacks of fruits and vegetables, the rows of dry goods, and not a sign of rationing anywhere.

He’d bought every fruit he could get his hands on, eager to try them all, the names just as exotic as the appearances.

Dragonfruit

Star fruit

Papaya

Lychee

Pomegranate

Each more strange than the last, he’d eaten himself sick and then had gone back for more.

Shaking his head, he sips his coffee and bites into a beso, humming at the taste of the fresh jelly sandwiched between the two balls of fried dough. He checks the schedule and notes that Daryl and Frank are on with him today, rolling his eyes when he sees that the Cadillac with the catalytic converter problem is first on his list of work to be done.

They’re a small family shop, but the locals know and trust their work which means it’s not just beat up family vans and work trucks they’re repairing, but high end cars too.

Since Bucky’s the only one with the experience of working on anything fancier than a Volvo, he’s the one who gets to deal with the snobby pricks that own them too.

Swallowing down the last of his coffee, he pops the final bite of his borrachito into his mouth and licks his fingers clean, chewing as he heads into the garage portion of the building. He’s just pulling the Cadillac into the bay when a van pulls up out front, screeching and bellowing white smoke.

The woman that stumbles out looks to be on the verge of tears, thin hands shaking as she waves at Bucky, and then to the car.

“P-please, can you help?” she asks, voice wavering and meek, shoulders hunched in a submissive curve that makes his gut roil—It’s fearful and brittle and he hates it.

He nods and steps forward, slowing when she flinches and rocks backwards, eyes darting around nervously.

“Sure,” he agrees softly, gaze flickering to the three young kids in the van. “Why don’t you take the kids to the bakery across the way,” he suggests. “Tell ‘em Bucky sent you and it’s on me,” he tells her with a reassuring smile.

She shakes her head immediately, lips quivering, eyes too wide, fearful and trembling like a scared rabbit. “I can’t, you don’t need to—”

“I know, but we help each other out around here, they’ll take good care of you, and I’ll have you back on the road as quick as I can,” he promises, trying out another smile.

It seems to reassure her, even if she is still shaking and looking like she’s near tears. He helps her get the kids out of their car seats and points them across the street to Panadería Flor, waiting till they’re safely indoors before he puts the car into neutral and rolls it into the shop.

It doesn’t take long to figure out that the timing belt and the transmission are both shot—Bucky’s not sure how she made it here in one piece, but he does know that he won’t have this fixed today.

Wiping the grease off his hands and into his coveralls, he goes to the computer and checks the log for the loaner car. Luckily, it’s still checked in. He types in the necessary information and grabs the keys just as the bell over the front door rings.

The kids laugh and chatter and he can hear the mom hushing them, sounding worn and tired even from here. He greets them with a smile and waves at the kids, “Did Luís and Carmine give you something good?” he asks teasingly, seeing the sugar all over their faces.

The little girl nods effusively, “But we can’t tell daddy,” she whispers, “he doesn’t like us having sugar.”

The mom flushes and hushes the little girl, nudging her back and out of sight. In the sharper lighting of the office Bucky can see how thin she is, pale and almost sickly looking, and despite the clever makeup she’s wearing, he can see a bruise on her cheek and a cut on her hairline.

Something curls inside him, dark and angry.

Maybe she can sense it, because a moment later her head is bowing down, an act of submission that takes him totally by surprise. He clears his throat and glances away for a moment to let the charged, uneasy feeling in the air slip away.

When he looks back up she’s not meeting his eye, but looking somewhere over to the left of his shoulder.

“Listen,” he explains gently, “the transmission and timing belt are both bad. It’s not safe to drive, but don’t worry, we got a loaner you can take till I get the parts and get it fixed.”

If anything, her face goes paler and Bucky steps forward when she sways. The kids are watching, eyes too curious, so he smiles at them and points to the tv in the corner, “You guys wanna watch cartoons?” he suggests, smiling faintly when they hurry over and flip on the tv.

When he’s sure their attention is held, he turns back to the mom. “I think I can have it fixed for you by tomorrow morning, okay?”

She nods slowly, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, gnawing it raw. “My...my husband, he uh, how much will it cost?” she stammers out.

Bucky does some quick calculations.

“I’ll get you a used transmission from my guy, it’ll cut down on the cost. Timing belt should be about two hundred. All in all, about eight hundred dollars.”

Her eyes fall shut at the total, throat working hard for a moment and Bucky fights the urge to wrap his fingers around her elbow to steady her.

“I’ll do it as quick and as cheap as I can without using shit parts,” he tells her quietly, “I don’t wanna see you back here in six months cuz I didn’t do my job right.”

At this, she smiles, faintly.

“I appreciate that, thank you.”

Bucky nods, “I’ll get your car seats and get them all set up in the van for you, you guys just wait here,” he orders softly, cursing internally when he sees the woman go stiff at the command.

He fumbles awkwardly for something to say to mitigate his complete overstep in societal norms and fails utterly, scurrying away with his head ducked low.

_Shit_

His head throbs with every beat of his heart and he curses himself for the slip up—in the face of what is very obviously a battered and neglected sub he’d overstepped and given her a command, which would be an egregious enough violation of the unspoken rules of society, but even worse is the fact that he hadn’t even meant to.

He fumbles the car seat and drops it on his foot and bites back a shout of frustration. His metal fist clenches and he can hear the servos whining and clicking and of fucking _course_ it needs servicing. He seethes, teeth gritted as he breathes unsteadily, trying to calm himself.

He doesn’t need to upset the woman any further than he already did.

It takes a few minutes but he finally secures the seats and then goes back into the office to make sure the woman and kids have everything they need from their car before he hands over the keys to the loaner.

Bucky hands her a slip of cheap card stock with his name and number on it and a promise to have her car ready by close of business tomorrow, at the latest. By that time Daryl and Frank are both in and chatting over a cup of coffee so he grabs another for himself along with an apple from the basket.

He manages to finish the Cadillac before noon and then borrows Daryl’s truck to go pick up the parts he’ll need for the van. His head is _still_ throbbing and his chest is knotted with anxiety for some fucking reason so he tries to do the breathing exercises Sam had given him, and it mostly kinda works, but deep down, he’s not sure he’ll ever be _okay._

_Fuck_ , he just wants to feel...normal.

He laughs bitterly, eyes wet as emotion chokes him because what the fuck is normal anymore? He’s a former assassin, a murderer, a _monster_ —he doesn’t have any idea how to be _normal._

He slams a hand against the steering wheel and shakes his head, trying to focus on the song the radio is playing, anything to get him out of his head.

It takes all of ten minutes for him to load up the transmission and pay for it and then he’s back in the truck, window down for fresh air on his face. The city smells different now—more diesel and smog, piss and sweat and death making the air bitter and foul.

He curses at the traffic like everyone else, stops for a pizza on the way back and eats half of it before he even gets back to the garage. His metabolism is similar to Steve’s, but given that his serum was a bastard version of Erskin’s, it’s not quite the same.

Still, he can mostly eat whatever the fuck he wants and it barely makes a difference to his body. He’s able to get shit faced, which Steve can’t, even if it does take two or three bottles of whiskey to do it.

He’s been so anxious and tired lately from nightmares that he’s contemplating texting his dealer and picking up some more weed to make cookies. Even if his body hasn’t been pushed to the limits of its endurance, he’d still like to not feel so much like shit _all the time._

He’d like to sleep peacefully.

Be happy.

He barely notices the flow of time once he’s back, lost in his head as he pulls apart the van, up to his elbows in engine grease and car parts. His phone plays classical music, Rachmaninov he thinks, and his fingers itch to touch the keys of a piano again.

It’s been years since he played...a lifetime really.

Sam has encouraged him to get a keyboard, but it’s just not the same. He misses his ma’s old upright and the way the the pedals didn’t work and the C# always fell out of tune, the smell of the wood and the feel of the keys under his fingers.

He misses the way she’d sing _Adon Olam_ in Hebrew, her voice rising and falling, eyes closed as she swayed and smiled, lost in the music.

There’s a lot he misses these days.

By the time he’s finished with the van it’s 2am and the pizza is long gone. He slams the hood shut and wipes his hands off on his coveralls, head pounding as he shuffles into the small back room. He grabs a bottle of water from the small fridge and a yogurt that’s only two days from it’s best by date and flops down on the dirty old couch to eat.

His eyes ache inside his skull, the heat and pressure under his scalp making him bury his face in the pillow to hide from the light. His skin feels too tight, like he’s going to burst at the seams and he shifts restlessly, a whine of pain and displeasure rising in his throat.

Fingers furrowing through his hair, he tugs on it till it hurts, the sharp pain of it distracting him from everything else for a few breaths. It’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works. He exhales shakily and loosens his grip, focuses on his breathing till he’s less tense than before.

Eventually he manages to fall asleep, arm thrown over his face, too long legs hanging off the edge of the small couch. He sleeps in fits and spurts, careening between nightmares and memories of his youth.

Anymore he’s not sure if those are good dreams or bad.

He wakes up for the last time around 5am and sits up slowly, eyes gritty with sleep and heavy with exhaustion. Sighing heavily, he drops his head into his hands, feeling no better despite the sleep he managed to get.

Shuffling to the bathroom, he washes his hands and face before stripping out of his shirt and washing his chest and underarms. He pats himself dry with the dirty shirt before walking out to the lockers and digging out his spare shirt and deodorant.

By the time he’s done it’s nearly six so he unlocks the front door and walks across the street to the panadería.

Same thing, like every other day.

He smiles tiredly at Carmine and Luís, gets his box of pastries and heads back to the shop.

The coffee brews and he stares blankly into space, exhausted and feeling like an empty, hollow shell.

The phone ringing startles him out of his trance and he hurries over to answer it, voice hoarse and low from disuse. He barely talks to anyone anymore, just the occasional customer and sometimes with Daryl or Frank.

The Cadillac owner comes and picks up the car, tips him a fifty and makes a snide remark about the state of Bucky’s clothes, but it barely even registers. The man clearly wants to be the dominant one and Bucky just doesn’t have the energy to fight him on it.

He doesn’t have the energy for a dick measuring contest with a man he could snap the neck of in a heartbeat.

Seven am rolls around and there’s a knock at the front door. He spies the woman from the day before, this time without her kids. There’s a new bruise on her face and he can clearly see fingerprints on her throat, despite the makeup she’s attempted to cover them with.

He lets her in quickly and they stare at each other for a long, quiet moment. Her eyes are bright and shining with unshed tears and his heart lurches painfully.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” she rasps, large green eyes watery and red. Her entire body shakes, and Bucky’s not sure he’s ever seen a sub so neglected and abused. Rage seethes within him, blindingly hot for a moment before he shoves it aside.

It’s not useful right now. Right now, she needs him to be calm and quiet and kind.

He can do that.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand closing gently around her elbow. He notes that she obeys easily and guides her back to the staff room, making sure his grip is light on her delicate arm. She feels like she’s made of bird bone—hollow and too light.

They sit and he presses a bottle of water into her hand, grabs a pastry and cuts it up for her, adds apple slices too and then sits beside her once more, keeping himself very still and quiet.

Her hands shake as she eats, breathing unsteadily, eyes glassy, and Bucky is absolutely certain that she’s in some form of sub drop—probably from the adrenaline high that came with whoever it was that beat her.

Her husband most likely.

“Is anything broken?” he asks quietly, looking her over once more. He doesn’t _see_ anything obvious, but the bones in the face are small and delicate in places and it can be hard to tell if one is fractured.

She shakes her head listlessly and Bucky reaches out and nudges another piece of pastry toward her, debating for a moment if he should try and feed her himself, but then she picks it up and eats it, and he forces himself to lean back a bit, give her space.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice low and gently commanding. He sees the way it makes her sit a little straighter and turns himself to face her more, offering a soft smile when she dares a glance at him.

Her lips tremble in something like the ghost of a smile and Bucky nods encouragingly, body relaxed and exuding protective energy. She exhales and looks away, and Bucky can see the livid purple marks all the more clearly on her throat.

“Carrie,” she whispers, “my name is Carrie.”

He offers his hand cautiously and waits till she looks up to smile at her again, “Bucky.”

She hesitates for a long moment and then takes his hand and shakes it, a pale ghost of a smile on her face.

“Nice to meet you Bucky.”

* * *

He helps Carrie get her and her kids to a shelter that’s run by a friend of Sam’s, gently guiding her, praising her for doing this, a hand at her elbow nearly the whole time, and then crashes when he gets home.

His head is dizzy and muzzy, like it’s been stuffed with cotton batting and he feels so goddamn tired, like a weight is pressing down on his chest so he can’t breathe and he can’t stifle the sob that claws its way out, nor the ones that follow.

_Fuck,_ it’s dom drop and it’s _bad_.

He sheds his clothes and pulls out the heated weighted blanket Sam had gotten him when he’d first helped get Bucky set up in the city. At this point he’s shivering so hard he can barely stay upright, teeth chattering as his head pounds.

A whine works its way out of his throat and he sobs again, curling up into a ball on his bed, the protective heat and weight of the blanket cocooning him.

He shivers and sobs for what feels like days, skull throbbing as he curls in around himself harder, fighting against the tide of memories that are pounding against his skull, demanding to be let in.

_They scorched it out of him, the will to dominate, and replaced it with the urge to submit._

_He’s a barren wasteland now, tabula rasa, their blank slate, plaything, broken little doll._

_They command him to his knees and he’s surrounded by shining boots and grim smiles, teasing him cruelly for being a slut._

_The fist of hydra submits like a whore._

_And then, there is nothing._

_He is blank, dead eyed, and broken._

* * *

He’s back at work three days later, and his hands are still shaking. He barely remembers the last three days; all he knows is that his voice is hoarse from screaming through his nightmares and at some point, he’d stopped even _trying_ to sleep.

He’s run himself ragged; sprinting through the streets for hours at a time, punching abandoned and ruined brick factory walls till his knuckles bled, drinking until he blacked out and still, nothing stopped his nightmares and flashbacks.

The clanging of tools and shitty 80’s rock music and loud voices of his coworkers chip away at his nerves, slowly, painfully. He flinches every time someone touches him and feels himself winding tighter and tighter till he’s shaking with pent up anxiety and rage.

Frank makes an off color joke and slaps Bucky’s arm as he laughs and that’s it, that’s all it takes for him to snap.

He tosses aside his wrench and growls under his breath, chest heaving as he mutters something about not feeling well and stumbles to the door.

“Man you need to get laid!” Frank calls, “get a sub and work it out my man!”

The words chase him down the street and through the alleyway, up the stairs and into his apartment. He falls to his knees, gasping for breath, head pounding as he sobs, aching loneliness echoing inside him.

He’s so goddamn _tired_.

Brow pressed to the floor, tears dripping off his face, he finally admits to himself that he’s tired of being alone.

He’s tired, and he doesn’t want to do this anymore.

The fingers of his metal hand dig into the warped wood floorboards as he cries, curled into a ball to try and protect himself from...everything.

Christ, he’s _so_ goddamn tired.

* * *

Bucky stares at the screen of his laptop, the checklist staring back at him, taunting him. He knows if he wants to get set up with a sub he needs to fill this out, but he’s not sure he can.

What sub would want a man as damaged as he is?

What sub would want a dom forced to submit for 70 years?

He hasn’t had a sub since...Christ, _1942?_ He scoffs and rubs his hands over his face, growling in frustration.

Now that he’s realized that his shitty mood and insomnia aren't just normal mood swings and anxiety from his PTSD, he’s realized that he’s in sub withdrawal and everything that’s happened in the last few weeks comes into focus.

He hadn’t even _considered_ it a possibility, if he’s honest with himself. He’d been experimented on and forced to submit against his nature and when he’d left Hydra behind and worked with Sam on breaking his conditioning, he’d felt nothing like the urge to dom.

He’d thought that perhaps after decades of torture and experimentation that maybe his body had been turned into a neutral—no need for submission or domination.

His bitter half hysterical sob-laugh echoes out from behind his hands, because isn’t this just like his luck? Not a _goddamn_ thing has gone right since the day he got his orders to ship out.

_Fuck._

He hates feeling like this; so filled with anger and despair and loneliness that it chokes him. He’s had to struggle through his work days, trying not to snap at people, hiding in the shop when customers are there, and the nights are even worse.

His landlord gave him notice that if he can’t control his episodes, he’s going to be evicted.

He _has_ to do this.

Heaving a sigh past bitten and wet lips, he wipes at his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath and then steels himself to fill out the form.

What’s the worst that can happen?

* * *

It takes less than an hour before he’s notified that he has multiple matches. It takes him half that time to read through their profiles and feel absolutely nothing about them. No connection, no spark, _nothing_.

Frustration swells within him and he paces the floor of his apartment till he’s so wound up he’s shaking. It’s 3am, but he doesn’t care; he pulls on running shoes and goes out, running like his demons are hot on his tail.

It takes nearly three hours for him to wear himself out, and when he comes home he finds he has one new match.

The sarcasm and dry wit in the profile makes Bucky’s lips twitch in amusement, the first smile he’s worn in... _god,_ _**weeks**_ now. He reads through IronMan’s profile and checklist two more times and then goes to shower, washing off slowly as he contemplates what he might say if he messaged the person.

By the time he’s dressed and toweling off his hair it’s past 7am and he’s finally feeling tired enough that maybe he can sleep. He keeps pulling out his phone to read the profile while he makes breakfast, intrigued by the sass and spirit this sub is showing in just a few lines.

He’s not one to deal with brats usually, but there’s something about this guy that makes him think maybe he’s less of a brat and more...independent. He’s known many a dom who enjoys breaking a brat, but for Bucky the beauty of submission is in the way a sub _wants_ to give in, to be taken care of.

Maybe this guy will be a brat.

But something tells Bucky he’s not.

He flops back into bed and types out a quick message before putting his phone on silent and rolling over to nap.

He’s got a late shift today, and maybe, a new sub.

Smiling into the pillow, he falls asleep faster than he has in weeks.

* * *

He wakes three hours later to the chiming of his alarm, feeling rested and calm. He mutes the alarm and pauses when he sees he has a response on the app from IronMan. Which looks like it was sent not ten minutes after his message, and _wow_ does he feel like an ass.

IronMan  
  
It looks like we’re a pretty good match, which is hard to find these days, are you still looking for a dom?  
I’m honestly surprised I got a match, I don’t know anyone who wants a sub like me  
I mean; Hi  
or whatever people say on these things  


Bucky snorts, a barely repressed grin on his face as he types out a response. He waits for a moment and then hurries to dress for work, grinning when he hears the ping of the phone again.

IronMan  
  
What’s wrong with a sub like you? I like your profile, it’s interesting  
If by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘annoying,’ then sure  
I’m VERY interesting  


Bucky full on laughs at that, hair tie clenched between his teeth, something light taking up residence in his chest as he hastily ties his hair back. He uses one hand to type his response while he snags an apple and a stick of cheese from his fridge.

IronMan  
  
lol I like that you’ve got spark, it’s hard to find someone who’s sharp and witty like that these days  


He’s grinning as he chugs down half his protein shake and zips up his hoodie, clattering down the stairs to the street, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

He hurries through the streets, propelled by the little ball of warmth blooming in his chest.

The phone pings and he checks the message, laughing out loud when he sees what IronMan has responded with.

IronMan  
  
Ha, “these days.” As opposed to the “old days” there, centennial man??  
lol what can I say, I’m an old soul  
Oh god, I knew it  
You’re a hipster  


He’s grinning at the witty back and forth as he shrugs off his hoodie and grabs his coveralls from his lockers.

“Damn Barnes, who put that smile on your face and can I get her number?”

Bucky can’t even be annoyed with Frank for being crass, he just flips him off and grabs a cruller from the break room before heading out into the shop.

IronMan  
  
You get that word outta your mouth darlin, I’m nothing of the sort  
Uh huh, we’ll just have to see about that  


Hope thrills through Bucky and he types out a response, heart beating rapidly, palm sweaty.

IronMan  
  
Does that mean you want to meet?  


There’s nothing for a long few minutes in which Bucky tries to work on the carburetor he’s supposed to be fixing, but he can’t focus, hoping he hasn’t rushed things or offended the man.

His phone pings and his heart leaps.

IronMan  
  
I... suppose I wouldn’t be wholly opposed to it  


Chuckling softly, he hurries to type out a reply with his hand that isn’t covered in grease.

IronMan  
  
lol what a ringing endorsement  
😜   
Well, if you’re interested, I’m free tomorrow night after work-anytime after six  
That could work for me, I’ll just have you meet me at my office  
Great! Shoot me the address and time you want me there and any other info I need and I’ll see you then!  
Sounds good my hip young friend  
Stop it 🤫 no hipsters allowed  
lol whatever you say. You are very UNhip  
You got it darlin 😉  


Bucky doesn’t stop smiling all day.

* * *

IronMan  
  
200 Park Ave, 7pm, suite 2732  
Just tell the front desk you’re meeting Antonio and they’ll send you up to me  
I’ll tell them to be on the lookout for hipsters  
lol you’re a sharp one, aren’t you darlin?  
I’ve been told I’m mouthy, yes  
You sure are darlin, good thing I like that in a lover  
Lover?? Who even uses that term anymore?  
Told you, I’m an old soul 😉  
lol whatever you say old man  
👴🏻 get off my lawn!  
😂  


Whoever it is that works at Stark Industries _must_ be an Iron Man fan, what with the username and all. It had given him a kick when he’d looked up the address to see if he could walk to it from his apartment and realized the meeting was at Stark Tower.

Bucky wipes his palm nervously against his jeans, wondering not for the first time if he should have dressed up more. He imagines all the folks here dress pretty nice; suits and ties and shiny shoes. They’d probably look down on a man like him, a man who works in a garage and smells like sweat and grease half the time.

Still, he’d showered and made sure to scrub under his nails, put on his black skinny jeans that Sam had assured him were _hot_ , and paired it with a long sleeved midnight blue button down shirt.

He’s rolled up the sleeves and shined up his boots, and he thinks he looks pretty good; admiring his reflection in the elevator doors for a moment before they slide open and he steps in.

IronMan  
  
On my way up. I’ll be the hipster in the man bun  
I’ll be the one with the scissors to cut it off for you, no thanks necessary  
Rude  
I’m doing you and the world a favor  
🖕🏻🖕🏻🖕🏻  


Bucky exits the elevator on the 27th floor and checks the wall signs for directions before turning to the left and walking down the long hallway. His anticipation grows as he walks up to the suite, pausing outside the door, palm sweaty and heart thumping; he’s nervous and _hopeful_.

He likes IronMan, or, Antonio, apparently, and he wants this to work out, more than he’d like to admit. Hopefully tonight goes well, and they can have something together that’s fun and light and easy. He swallows hard against his nerves and assures himself that it’ll be ok.

The worst that can happen is that there’s no chemistry in person and they go their separate ways, no harm no foul.

It’ll be fine.

Knocking, he waits a moment and then pushes the door open, then halts, frozen in place by the sight of _Tony Stark_.

Is this a joke?

A trap?

Every instinct screams for him to _run._

_“Sergeant Barnes?”_

_The man chokes on blood, begging for his wife’s life._

_“Please...help...my wife...help my wife.”_

_He crushes her throat and watches the life leave her eyes._

Cold sweat breaks out on his skin and every instinct within him _screams_ to run, but he can’t look away from the man in front of him.

Stark stares back at him in shock, face ghostly pale, the faintest tremor in his hands the only detectable movement coming from his body.

Bucky’s not even sure he’s breathing.

His own heart races and his hands clench and unclench at his sides, indecision tearing him apart.

What the hell is he supposed to do _now_?

“You’re, ah, you’re IronMan?” Bucky finally asks weakly, taking half a step forward and immediately halting when Stark flinches back.

Fuck.

Stark starts breathing too fast, too shallow, breath sawing in and out of his chest, eyes wide as saucers as he trembles and stumbles back, thighs colliding with his desk as he tries to get away.

_Fuck._

It hurts more than he thought it would to see someone flinching away from him and he swallows hard against the disappointment and grief that wells up inside him.

“Stark, I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises lowly, “I would _never_. I don’t _do_ that anymore.”

He doesn’t think Stark hears him at all; he’s pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf, sweat beading on his brow and Bucky knows he has to act _now._ Stark looks like he’s having a panic attack and Bucky’s all too familiar with them himself to let this man suffer.

Cursing under his breath, he risks a half step forward, hand outstretched in a placating gesture, “Stark,” he calls, “ _Tony_ , I need you to sit down,” he orders, the dom command filling his voice, deepening it and making it rumble in his chest as he points to the couch by the window.

He’s more than a little surprised when Stark obeys, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles and collapses onto the couch. Bucky hadn’t thought Stark would have the state of mind to follow an order, even one from a dom, but the other man moves, albeit clumsily, to do what Bucky’s ordered.

A quick glance around the room tells Bucky there’s a blanket on the back of the couch and a mini fridge he suspects is well stocked.

Thank _fuck_ for the overindulgence of the rich.

He points to the fridge, “I’m gonna go look and see what’s in here, ok darlin’? I’ll be right where you can see me,” he assures Tony, studying him intently to see if he’s being heard.

Stark is wide eyed and still breathing too fast, a wild, terrified look in his eyes, but he still manages a weak nod, though it’s accompanied by a low whine, and that more than anything kicks Bucky’s instincts into gear.

He gets a bottle of water, a container of diced fruit and a bar of chocolate out before going over to Stark and draping the blanket around his shoulders. He kneels down in front of Tony, making his bulk smaller, less imposing.

He’s seen people shy away from him, eyes wide at his muscles and arm and grim face. It hurts the most when it’s small children, fear in their eyes, like they think he’d hurt them.

“Here, small sips, ok?” he murmurs hoarsely, holding the bottle up to Stark’s lips, hating the way they’re nearly bloodlessly white, aching to hold the man and comfort him. His dom instincts urge him to protect and he shivers, swallows it down and does his best to take care of Stark without crossing any lines.

The older man’s lips tremble as he tries to drink, and some of the water spills down his chin. Before Bucky can even wipe it up or say anything, Stark whines, cringing away like he’s expecting to be struck in the face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _please_ ,” he whimpers, shaking harder than before.

It damn near breaks Bucky’s heart.

“It’s ok, shh, darlin, it’s okay,” he croons, risking a hand on Stark’s knee, squeezing gently. Stark whines again but leans forward slightly when Bucky encourages him, sipping from the water again.

Bucky takes his time, alternates the water with bites of fruit and small pieces of chocolate, rubbing Stark’s thigh gently and whispering words of encouragement and praise.

“There you go darlin’ nice and easy,” he murmurs, “I got you, you’re safe.”

Stark shivers and takes another bite of fruit from Bucky’s fingers, and he smiles softly, keeping his voice low and soothing. “You’re doin so good sweetheart, take some nice _easy_ breaths for me,” he encourages, just a hint of dom command in his voice.

He doesn’t want to overstimulate the man when he’s so clearly vulnerable, but he thinks that just a touch of authority will help calm him.

He hopes so, anyway.

Bucky keeps up the gentle tone and soothing touches till Stark’s eyes clear, and then he leans back onto his haunches and gives him space to breathe. He knows how big and intimidating he can be, and the last thing he wants is to make Stark feel unsafe or threatened.

Tired brown eyes study him as the older man picks at the remaining fruit with fingers that still tremble, finally wiping at the last of the water that had spilled down his chin with the back of his other hand.

“Why did you do that?”

Bucky frowns at the question, “Take care of you you mean?” he asks, brow wrinkling as Stark nods. “Because you were in distress, seemed like an anxiety attack, or panic, but I dunno, I couldn’t leave you like that. Wouldn’t be right.”

Stark studies him, brow furrowing deeply as though what Bucky has said is deeply confusing.

“But I’m not your sub.”

Bucky lifts a brow at the sentiment behind that statement and then shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter. I’d be a _shitty_ dom if I didn’t take care of a sub that was hurting in front of me. Anyone hurting in front of me, I’d help.”

Stark looks puzzled as he eats a bite of chocolate, color returning slowly to his pale cheeks. He looks tired, drawn and pinched, eyes sad and lonely and Bucky aches with the urge to collect him in his arms and hold him close.

It makes something in the vicinity of Bucky’s chest pinch sharply, and he reigns in the urge to reach out and take his hand, _and_ the one that’s demanding he cuddle his sub till they’re happy and smiling.

He flinches internally at the thought, because Stark isn’t _his_ sub.

Not yet anyway.

Probably never, actually.

Stark sighs heavily, suddenly looking deeply exhausted. He looks like he’s got the weight of his world on him as he works up the ghost of a smile, “Well you did your good deed for the year, you can go,” he murmurs, nodding toward the door.

Bucky frowns, a little puzzled by Stark’s suddenly dismissive behavior, and shifts so he’s sitting cross legged, “Do you _want_ me to leave? I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re still shaky.”

Which he is, Bucky can see that clearly, but if the other man doesn’t want him here, Bucky’s not gonna stay.

“Told you that you wouldn’t want a sub like me,” Stark mutters bitterly, avoiding Bucky’s gaze like it’ll burn if he lets it land.

Bucky makes a soft distressed noise, heart breaking at the matter of fact way Stark talks about himself.

“That’s just _not_ true darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing, and hopefully convincing. “You’re funny and smart and kind, and you do more good for the world than most people know.”

Bucky laughs softly, heart in his throat and Stark looks up curiously. “I’d be honored to have you as my sub darlin, believe me,” he murmurs, hoping that a little honestly will go a long way.

He smiles at Stark, warm and hopeful and Stark blushes all of a sudden, looking away hastily under the steady gaze.

Bucky watches the color spread across Stark’s face at his admission and grins for the first time since he got here, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide it a little so it’s not _so_ obvious how much he’s pleased by that reaction.

Stark looks _gorgeous_ with a blush on his cheeks and Bucky tucks his admiration away for the moment, though he can’t deny he hopes that he gets to see it again.

“Listen,” he murmurs, smiling softly when Stark meets his gaze once more, “Why don’t you think about things for a few days and message me when you know what you want. No pressure.”

He waits till Stark nods and then pauses before rising. “Are you okay? If I leave, will you be alright?” he asks, concern warming his voice.

Stark studies him and then nods, clearing his throat, “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s a short ride up to the penthouse,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and sounding like he’s seconds away from crying.

Once again Bucky fights the urge to cuddle him, dom instincts surging, trying to get him to take control and give his sub what he needs.

Bucky nods, a little worried still, “I’ll be fine,” Tony assures him with a sad, tired smile.

Bucky’s never seen someone with so much sorrow in their eyes before and he’s looked into the mirror at his own hollow gaze after he’d left Steve on the shores of the river in DC.

He hesitates and then rises to his feet, feeling awkward for a moment, he’s not really sure what to do or say, and he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, so he smiles and laughs nervously and murmurs a quick goodbye and then, just like that, he’s gone.

* * *

IronMan  
  
Tony, I’m sorry if I scared you tonight, please know I had NO idea it was you I was coming to meet  
I won’t lie and say I wasn’t shocked to see you, but I also can’t say I was disappointed. You’re an incredible man, Tony, and I’d be honored to have you as my sub  
I do want you to know Tony, if I never hear from you again that’s totally fine, but I hope you find someone to take care of you like you deserve  


Bucky sends the messages when he gets home and then sits for a while, waiting, hoping for a response.

Eventually he can’t sit still, agonizing over every detail of the night, he has to _move._

He putters to try and distract himself; cleans his bathroom and organizes his spice rack, starts a loaf of bread and makes a cup of tea to enjoy while he reads, and before he knows it, it’s midnight and he’s had no response from Tony.

Swallowing down his disappointment, he strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed, heart heavy and throat thick with emotion.

Maybe…maybe he’ll never find someone to dom. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. He’d find a way to live with it, with the side effects of sub withdrawal—he’s suffered through worse, after all.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he takes a shaky breath and wipes at his tired, wet eyes before rolling over and pulling his body pillow close to his chest.

He knows he told Stark to take his time in responding, but still, it hurts to hear nothing back. Rejection tastes just as bitter as regret and despair lodges in his throat. He chokes on it, screws his eyes closed and tries to will himself to sleep.

It doesn’t come for a long, long time.

* * *

IronMan  
  
Ha, at least I wasn’t the only one shocked  
I don’t... know that you want to get into a debate about what i ‘deserve’ and I can’t promise I’ll be a particularly GOOD sub, I’ve been told that’s useless, but I’ll try not to be terrible for you   
If you still want to give it a try. I’m all yours  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who is unable to see the spreadsheet of kink clearly, click [here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1HbBLfOp4LEs7ctLiWn59-aDt8gJRXceSigYUO5sZVMA/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> Saw this on Tumblr and I think it's a lovely idea--feel free to copy and paste into your own fics!!
> 
> Emoji Key for those who don't know what to say in the comments!
> 
> ❤ = you wish you could kudos again  
> 😭 = I got you right in the feels  
> 🔥 = this was so hot!  
> 🐰 = it’s so fluffy!


End file.
